


Uncommon Trophy

by Tyelperintal



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: All Fingon and Maedhros do here is hold hands and kiss like the sappy old men that they are, Fluff with sinister undertones?, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Gore, mild gore relating to orcs, pov switching, which is the reason for the M rating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:28:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25299877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyelperintal/pseuds/Tyelperintal
Summary: Maedhros finds an orc helmet on the battlefield and makes observations, Fingolfin is wary, and Fingon receives a less than romantic gift at Barad Eithel.
Relationships: Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë & Maedhros | Maitimo, Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 6
Kudos: 60





	Uncommon Trophy

There was an efficiency with which they could now scour the battlefield after the fighting ceased. Rally by the banners, seek out and help the wounded, kill or capture whichever wretched enemies had been unable to flee. The guardsmen of the Ñoldorin lords knew their roles and moved neatly across the field, checking the field for any traps hastily laid by the enemy before they could permit the High King to follow.

But today, as he made his way across the scorched field, the High King had unusual company. Maedhros Fëanorion did not often venture this far west, but the worst of the fighting had been this side of Dorthonion—the last few weeks had seen his forces gradually pushing around the mountains and into Ladros before encountering Fingolfin’s forces. A show of thanks would be in order; a gift, perhaps made by the Mithrim Sindar who had folded themselves into the fabric of the Ñoldorin fortresses, or else from the Edain—Maedhros had always seemed more receptive to the unknown things of the East rather than a familiar treasure once secreted away from Valinor. (Which, of course, was just as well; there were few enough of those remaining in Hithlum, and half of what was there had been gifted _by_ Maedhros and his brothers. To regift it would be clumsy at best, and otherwise an outright slight.)

Aside from a brief greeting and word of congratulation, the two of them had mostly walked in silence, pausing occasionally to look at the orcs littering the ground. All a gruesome sight, but a particular orc’s severed head blocking their advance made both of their steps halt. It had half-fallen out of its crudely crested helm, a blackened tongue drooping out into the mud from behind broken incisors. But Maedhros approached it, taking a moment to sharply kick the head away before stooping to lift the helmet in his hand.

For a moment, he turned it back and forth, inspecting the carvings in the metal and the slashes of red paint extending from the crest of warg hair.

“His name was Blood-rot,” Maedhros said, seemingly reading the lines of paint, “if I have the symbols correct. I think…” He twisted the object in his hands. “He was a priest—I am not sure the word is appropriate, but his role was of that effect—here! The red Eye is for Morgoth’s lieutenant. This orc was one of Gorthaur’s. He must have been the equivalent of their standard-bearer.”

Fingolfin tore his eyes away from his nephew’s stern figure to scour the ground around them in search of the orc-standard instead, grateful for the distraction. The orcs did not always carry flags with them, although when they did, they were little more than shredded pieces of fabric or bloodied hide—scavenged, stained, and lashed to ugly poles with gut-string and crude nails. What inspiration they would see in it, Fingolfin could not understand—but then again, perhaps it was not meant to inspire their own side, but to disgust and terrify their opponents. To make a mockery of the gem-studded Ñoldorin banners…

Was Maedhros at an advantage when he battled because he knew these details?

The younger elf’s expression was unreadable as he held the orc helm, but Fingolfin wondered if there was some long-held agony hidden behind the stone-grey eyes. His observations were more detailed than any of the field reports the scouts made at Barad Eithel; even the most seasoned of the warriors found the orcish language undecipherable, and could make no sense of the coarse scratchings etched into their weapons and armor.

“Toss it away. Let it return to the earth,” the High King suggested, but Maedhros shook his head.

“I’ve a better idea. Where is Fingon? I have not seen him… is he…?”

It was strange, Fingolfin reflected, how readily Maedhros’ stern façade crumbled alongside his moment of doubt. His nephew wouldn’t balk at a servant of Gorthaur called _Blood-rot,_ but it took only a mention of Findekáno to put a furrow in his brow and softness back into his steely gaze. Fingolfin was not unaware of their mutual fondness for one another, although the degree to which he found it objectionable often fluctuated; Fingon’s loyalty was unwavering and without reservation, while Fingolfin doubted it was reciprocated as unequivocally. But perhaps it was not his place to comment.

“Alive,” Fingolfin assured Maedhros. “But the fool got himself pierced by arrows on the third day of fighting. He is recovering in Eithel Sirion.”

When Maedhros swallowed, the bob of his throat highlighting a silvery scar running around his neck, visible above the gorget of his armor. “Not grievous wounds, I hope?”

“Worse than _he_ thinks, but likely not as bad as _I_ think, if that tells you anything.” Fingolfin managed a twitch of his lip, as close as he could get to a smile while his muscles still ached from days of battle and while his eldest son lay bleeding a day’s ride from here. Even if a part of him had wanted to wait at his son’s side until he was recovered, there were others that needed his leadership more, and it would do Fingon no favors if he let the north be overrun.

Maedhros’ shoulders relaxed at the news, though; Fingolfin had not even realized they had been tensed until he saw the change. “He will not be happy to have missed this victory,” the Fëanorian replied.

Fingolfin breathed out a laugh. “No, but I expect he’ll have found a way to occupy himself. I gave him leave to rule in my stead while I fought, if he felt able; I know he would push himself to do so whether I gave my blessing or not. Ah, so perhaps you will find your taxes higher when you return to Himring.”

Maedhros gave a quiet snort of laughter, his fondness evident in his expression. “He is more astute than that, I believe. And more benevolent. Still, I am glad he is… _safe,_ if not presently with us.”

The High King hesitated. “We have much business to sort before we leave this field, Maedhros, but my son and I would both welcome a visit to Barad Eithel afterwards, if you can spare another week.”

Maedhros paused, giving the offer his consideration. “I will speak to Maglor. If he can organize our withdrawal from the field and back towards home, then I would be honoured to continue our diplomacy at Barad Eithel, Your Highness.”

A look passed between the two of them at that, until Fingolfin inclined his head very slightly in acknowledgement. 

* * *

With a view towards the north, Barad Eithel could claim an uneasy beauty at best. Generously, the white towers against the backdrop of snow-tipped mountains and cascading waterfalls could be said to be the more beautiful for the wastelands and black clouds contrasting them away to the north. But to assess her with honesty, she had been built as a fortress before the architects could give consideration to recreating the fair towers and fountain-filled plazas of Tirion.

While Fingolfin’s return in the mid-morning had been announced with much fanfare, Maedhros had quietly excused himself, assuming his presence would hardly be missed. After privately making sure his horse was tended to, he’d taken it upon himself to seek out his cousin, his battlefield trophy tucked under his right arm. A few of the palace guards gave him curious looks as he passed, but none of them moved to intervene or to question him about it, for which he was grateful.

While it might have been prudent to check with the healers first, given the news of Fingon’s injury, Maedhros had taken a chance and gone first to his cousin’s bedchambers. The wing of the palace was quiet, save for the sounds of birds and distant cascades filtering in through the windows, and the Fëanorion found the door ajar and only a single guard waiting outside.

“His Highness is resting,” the guard stated, although it did not seem to be a deterrent. Perhaps he knew better; Maedhros recognized his silver hair and foggy gaze from encounters previous, and the instructions he gave to the young Sinda were no different than they had been any other time.

“You may wait at the end of the hall until I leave.” _He’ll be safe with me._

Maedhros still closed the door after him as he stepped inside the room.

Fingon’s bed was placed at the far end of the room beside a series of wide windows that looked peacefully back towards the mountain peaks rather than towards the valley. He’d filled the remaining space with a variety of treasures—among them painted screens, gem-studded tapestries, armor meant more for display than for protection on the battlefield, and a pile of books stacked on top of a desk that Maedhros suspected were more in the vein of romantic poems than political treatises. He spared a curious glance towards a few of these things, but otherwise made as straight a path as he could to Fingon’s bedside, moving to kneel beside him.

Judging by his stillness, the prince was still asleep despite the late hour in the morning. His sky blue eyes were unfocused even as Maedhros approached; wisps of raven hair had escaped their elaborate series of plaits, and he wore only a loose fitting garment of dove-grey satin. Maedhros had expected worse—he’d feared they’d arrive to find Fingon hosting a full court in ignorance of his wounds, stubbornly claiming that even a poisoned orc arrow couldn’t keep a prince of the Eldar from attending his duties.

Stubborn fool. Maedhros smiled fondly, and after a moment of watching his prince’s chest rise and fall with deep breaths, he allowed himself to lightly trace the line of Fingon’s jaw with the back of his left hand, then leaned in to press a delicate kiss to his forehead.

Fingon inhaled, and after blinking away his sleep, his eyes flickered to Maedhros’ face. Recognition and surprise both wrote themselves in his expression before he hummed and leaned into Maedhros’ lingering touch.

“I am still dreaming,” he murmured.

“Don’t flatter,” Maedhros chided as he drew back. “You are awake, and it is nearly noon, and I have brought you a gift.”

“You are the gift,” Fingon returned as he moved to sit up. It did not escape Maedhros’ notice that he favored his left side, and now that he looked, he could see white linen bandages beneath the grey satin. He fought back the urge to investigate, though; Fingolfin had told him as much as he needed to know, and if Fingon wished to share the details of his injuries, he would no doubt do so without prompting.

Maedhros had worn his russet hair unbound today, and he was glad it fell in such a way to obscure the faint blush in his cheeks. His pale complexion still betrayed him too easily, though few were privy to see it—Fingon was the chief offender. “Then I have brought you two gifts,” he countered. “Close your eyes. I’ll give it to you.”

Obediently, Fingon closed his eyes, and Maedhros took the opportunity to place the orc helmet on his lap, on top of his embroidered coverlet.

“You may look.”

Maybe it was cruel to set him up like this. Fingon’s expression went from hopeful to confused, then twisted into some form of disgust as he looked over the painted helm. “…Why are you giving this to me?”

“Would you have preferred the severed head inside?” Maedhros steeled his expression.

Fingon shook his head. “I would not.”

At least his frown was cute. Maedhros took advantage of the moment’s distraction, and leaned in again to land a kiss at the corner of his mouth. Then another to his lower lip, as it jutted out in its pout. “Don’t frown. I was thinking of you.”

“ _Maitimo_.” Fingon extended a hand, twisting his fingers through a few locks of copper hair tumbling over Maedhros’ shoulder before giving a playful tug. “I give you nothing but praise; I write you poems; I _yearn_ for you… and you pluck orc armor off the battlefield and say that it reminds you of me?!”

“No, you have it wrong. I only wanted to tell you about it,” Maedhros protested. “But when I looked for you among the hosts, you were not there. I had to resort to telling your father…”

He knew immediately that he had misspoken.

Fingon let his hand drop, and he sank down dramatically against his silk-covered pillows. But if Maedhros couldn’t control his flushed cheeks, Fingon was no better when it came to masking his expressions—the initial shock of seeing the orc helmet having worn off, he visibly struggled to keep a smile from turning up the corners of his lips.

“How are you feeling?” Maedhros asked quietly.

“I would like to say I have had worse,” Fingon admitted after a second’s pause, letting his smile falter. “The worst of it is over. I was only resting just now because the advisors kept saying we should wait until my father returned to discuss matters, and I grew bored of it.”

Maedhros let his hand seek out Fingon’s on top of the coverlet; if he neglected to mention that Fingolfin had also returned to Barad Eithel, he hoped his cousin would forgive him for it later. “Then will you let me alleviate your boredom by telling you about the helm I found, since I have come all this way to see you?”

His reward was one of Fingon’s pretty bell-like laughs. “If it makes you happy to tell me about the things you defeated, then I want to hear, though I don’t see what is special about it. But put it aside for now and come here. There’s room at my side, as long as you mind my shoulder.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a few paragraphs of this in 2015 and it's been in my documents folder ever since, waiting for attention. Apparently this week was the right time to open it up again and finish it, although it ended up a lot softer than my original concept. Maybe one day I'll come back and write more about Maedhros' experiences in Angband and how they led him to understand something about orc culture, but for now, I think I'm happy with just the implication of it here. 
> 
> Anyway, it's good to be back writing for my favorite fandom after all these years, pulling up the maps and the Wikis and timelines again... ;w;


End file.
